"If this is his idea of a dim trail, I'd like to see a
good one!"
He had not ridden far, however, before, in crossing a tiny trickle of
water, he could not fail to notice a clear-cut, recent hoof print. The
mark was that of a barefoot horse. Bob stared at it.
"Now if I were real _good_," he reflected, "like old
what-you-may-call-him--the Arabian Sherlock Holmes--I'd be able to tell
whether this horse was loose and climbing for pasture, or carrying a
rider, and if so, whether the rider had ever had his teeth filled.
There's been a lot of travel on this trail, anyway. I wonder where it
all went to?" He paused irresolutely. "It isn't more than two jumps back
to the rock," he decided; "I'll just find out what direction they take
anyway."
Accordingly he retraced his steps to the bald rock, and commenced an
examination of its circumference to determine where the trail led away.
He found no such exit. Save from the direction of his own camp the way
was closed either by precipitous sides or dense brush. The conclusion
was unavoidable that those who had travelled the trail, had either ended
their journeys at the bald rock or actually taken to the bed of the
river.
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